Read Online W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone Mystery) by Sue Grafton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sue Grafton
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school? Who made her the boss? I’m trying to do something nice for the man. Doesn’t that mean anything to you? Whether he was on good terms with his kids or not, they have a right to know he’s gone.”
I noticed he’d stopped making eye contact and he was busy picking at a snag on the knee of his trousers.
I said, “So what was his name?”
I didn’t think he’d answer. I watched him shift in his chair, wrestling with his conscience. On one hand, there was Pearl, the Holy Terror. If she found out he’d leaked the information, she’d break both of his clavicles, put him on the rack, and stretch him until she’d torn off his arms. On the other hand, there was me, all-around good person, generous with my coffee, and only occasionally guilty of sticking my nose into other people’s business. “Dandy?”
“R. T. Dace. He went by his middle name, Terrence, but you never heard it from me.”
I turned an imaginary key in my lips, locking them shut before I tossed away the key.
5
Fifteen minutes later, I dropped Dandy at the Harbor House. He hadn’t asked for a ride. I’d offered . . . nay, I’d insisted. I wanted to get rid of him so I’d have a chance to think about what he’d said. Having chided him for withholding information, I’d been less than forthcoming myself.
I’d actually heard the name R. T. Dace before. Twice as a matter of fact. I couldn’t remember the dates, but I knew of two distinct occasions in which people called to ask for him. What the heck was that about?
I left the shelter trying to recall the circumstances in which the phone calls had come in. It was distracting, trying to pin down the reference in a moving vehicle while hoping to obey traffic laws and avoid running over pedestrians. I turned into one of the public parking lots that looked out over the beach to the ocean beyond. I pulled into a slot and killed the engine. I laid my head back and closed my eyes, slowing my breath, working to silence the chatter in my head.
The inquiries had come months before, probably midsummer. I’d taken the first call at the office. I remembered that much. I tried to picture the cases I was working at the time, but my mental screen was blank. I set the point aside and focused on the fragment of conversation that had stuck in my mind. I was eating lunch at my desk when the phone rang. I put a quick hand against my mouth, chewing and swallowing in haste before I picked up. “Millhone Investigations.”
“May I speak to Mr. Millhone?”
The caller was male, on the young side, and his voice, while deep, suggested an underlying anxiety. I was already thinking it was a sales call, some boiler-room trainee learning the ropes. I’d pushed the caution button in my head while I tried to guess the nature of the upcoming pitch. Telemarketers inevitably say “How are you today?” in a tone that’s patently insincere, using the question as a means of engaging you in conversation. I said, “There isn’t a Mr. Millhone.”
The fellow cut in, but instead of the expected spiel, he said, “This is Dr. . . .”
I blanked on the name instantly because I had zeroed in on the voice, thinking it might be one I recognized. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m trying to reach Mr. Dace.”
“Who?”
“Artie Dace. I understand he doesn’t have a phone, but I hoped you’d put me in touch with him. Is he there by any chance?”
“You have the wrong number. There’s no Mr. Dace here.”
“Do you know how I can reach him? I tried the shelter, but they won’t confirm the name.”
“Same here. I never heard of him.”
There was a brief silence. “Sorry,” he said, and the line went dead.
I remembered dismissing the call the moment I hung up, though I half expected the phone to ring again. Wrong numbers seem to come in clusters, often because the calling party tries the same number a second time, thinking the error is connected to the dialing process. I stared at the handset and when
I noticed he’d stopped making eye contact and he was busy picking at a snag on the knee of his trousers.
I said, “So what was his name?”
I didn’t think he’d answer. I watched him shift in his chair, wrestling with his conscience. On one hand, there was Pearl, the Holy Terror. If she found out he’d leaked the information, she’d break both of his clavicles, put him on the rack, and stretch him until she’d torn off his arms. On the other hand, there was me, all-around good person, generous with my coffee, and only occasionally guilty of sticking my nose into other people’s business. “Dandy?”
“R. T. Dace. He went by his middle name, Terrence, but you never heard it from me.”
I turned an imaginary key in my lips, locking them shut before I tossed away the key.
5
Fifteen minutes later, I dropped Dandy at the Harbor House. He hadn’t asked for a ride. I’d offered . . . nay, I’d insisted. I wanted to get rid of him so I’d have a chance to think about what he’d said. Having chided him for withholding information, I’d been less than forthcoming myself.
I’d actually heard the name R. T. Dace before. Twice as a matter of fact. I couldn’t remember the dates, but I knew of two distinct occasions in which people called to ask for him. What the heck was that about?
I left the shelter trying to recall the circumstances in which the phone calls had come in. It was distracting, trying to pin down the reference in a moving vehicle while hoping to obey traffic laws and avoid running over pedestrians. I turned into one of the public parking lots that looked out over the beach to the ocean beyond. I pulled into a slot and killed the engine. I laid my head back and closed my eyes, slowing my breath, working to silence the chatter in my head.
The inquiries had come months before, probably midsummer. I’d taken the first call at the office. I remembered that much. I tried to picture the cases I was working at the time, but my mental screen was blank. I set the point aside and focused on the fragment of conversation that had stuck in my mind. I was eating lunch at my desk when the phone rang. I put a quick hand against my mouth, chewing and swallowing in haste before I picked up. “Millhone Investigations.”
“May I speak to Mr. Millhone?”
The caller was male, on the young side, and his voice, while deep, suggested an underlying anxiety. I was already thinking it was a sales call, some boiler-room trainee learning the ropes. I’d pushed the caution button in my head while I tried to guess the nature of the upcoming pitch. Telemarketers inevitably say “How are you today?” in a tone that’s patently insincere, using the question as a means of engaging you in conversation. I said, “There isn’t a Mr. Millhone.”
The fellow cut in, but instead of the expected spiel, he said, “This is Dr. . . .”
I blanked on the name instantly because I had zeroed in on the voice, thinking it might be one I recognized. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m trying to reach Mr. Dace.”
“Who?”
“Artie Dace. I understand he doesn’t have a phone, but I hoped you’d put me in touch with him. Is he there by any chance?”
“You have the wrong number. There’s no Mr. Dace here.”
“Do you know how I can reach him? I tried the shelter, but they won’t confirm the name.”
“Same here. I never heard of him.”
There was a brief silence. “Sorry,” he said, and the line went dead.
I remembered dismissing the call the moment I hung up, though I half expected the phone to ring again. Wrong numbers seem to come in clusters, often because the calling party tries the same number a second time, thinking the error is connected to the dialing process. I stared at the handset and when
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